


Things Half Seen

by Aubry, orphan_account



Category: The Worst Witch
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aubry/pseuds/Aubry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As winter term of Mildred Hubble's fourth year begins, Miss Lynne Lamplighter returns to Cackle's Academy to teach full time. As she and Miss Hardbroom strike up an unlikely friendship, Constance finds herself struggling to understand the artist's way of looking at the world, and is confronted once again by her own limitations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alchemine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alchemine/gifts).



_In the half-light, the imagination can cast its spell.  – _Lynne Lamplighter, _‘_Art Wars_’._

 

**Things Half Seen**

 

 

It was chill for September. The tips of the pine trees quivered irresolutely against the darkening sky as a cold breeze ruffled their branches, shaking droplets of water down onto the forest path.

Constance Hardbroom paid no heed to the weather. The dress she wore was of sensible black cotton. Had it been blistering hot, or blowing a blizzard, she’d have worn it just the same, because it was winter term, and in winter term Miss Hardbroom wore her winter gowns. Her only concession to the vagaries of British weather was an umbrella, which she was carrying furled.

Winter term also meant a strict curfew for every girl at Cackle's, no matter how fair or foul the night, and no matter what unique or special a talent the headmistress believed required nurturing. Such was the tenor of Constance Hardbroom’s thoughts as she strode down the forest path to the village road. The cottage she sought stood right at the edge of town. It had been uninhabited for several years, but there were signs now that somebody was attempting to revitalize it. Constance approved of the neat straight lines of the flower beds. The garden gate, however, was an exercise in intricate fretwork, and was painted a vivid sky blue. She would never before have thought it possible for a gate to have airs above its station, but here was the proof, swinging open at her touch.

There was no response when she rang the doorbell, though her sharp ears picked up voices at the back of the house.

“Mildred Hubble!”  Miss Hardbroom called. Her voice was magically amplified and rang through the air. A sudden silence fell in the house, low murmuring, frantic footsteps, and the door opened to reveal the stricken face of Constance Hardbroom’s least-favourite pupil.

“It’s not seven yet, Miss Hardbroom,” stammered Mildred.

“The original agreement was that you would be back at the castle before it grew dark, Mildred Hubble,” said Constance sternly. “I am sorry if the Earth’s orbit impinges upon your fun.”

“Can I offer you some tea, Miss Hardbroom?” Lynne Lamplighter asked, appearing behind Mildred in the doorway. She wore a paint-spattered shirt and those same infernal trousers she’d worn when she’d come to Cackle’s for Art Week. (It was her trousers that bothered Constance the most. How could anyone expect to be taken seriously wearing trousers like those?)

“Thank you, Miss Lamplighter. But staying to tea would rather defeat the purpose of my coming to collect Mildred before it gets dark,” Miss Hardbroom pointed out.

“Yes, I suppose it would wouldn’t it,” smiled Lynne, not rising to the bait. “I’ll walk with you to the castle then.” (No, it was the smile that bothered Constance the most. As though this woman had guessed the punchline of a joke and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.)

“There is no need for that, Miss Lamplighter.”

Lynne just shrugged and pulled the door to behind her.

“Do you like the gate?” she asked as they passed through. “Quite out of place, isn’t it? I think it must have had a much grander life once upon a time, or at least I like to pretend so.” She laughed as she said it. (Actually, it was the laugh that bothered Constance most of all. The gate was unsuitable. What was funny about that? Nothing.)

 They walked in silence for a moment, Mildred leading the way several steps ahead and carrying the umbrella to keep her dry. Even so, Miss Hardbroom noticed, her slumped socks and trailing laces were already sodden.

“I need to talk to Miss Cackle in any case,” continued Lynne in breezy non sequitur. “About the difficulties of Mildred’s trekking down here all the time.”

Here Constance felt she was on firmer ground. She nodded vigourously.

“I quite understand. It may have been acceptable last summer, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that it’s simply untenable for this arrangement to continue,” she said, not without satisfaction.

“Yes, I can see that,” said Miss Lamplighter.

Constance was exultant. Victory so easily won. Mildred returned to her place and no more Miss psychedelic-trousers confusing everything.

Lynne was smiling again.

“I’m glad we’re in agreement. I plan to teach her at the school instead. Miss Cackle asked me once if I would like to come and teach regularly at the school, and I’m inclined to take her up on her proposal.”

It was at that point that Mildred tripped over the root and broke the umbrella.

It was going to be one of _those _terms, Constance knew. In her experience, every term was.


	2. Chapter 2

There were times when reasoning with Miss Cackle worked, and there were times when it didn’t. Even after all these years, Constance never knew going in which outcome to expect. Perhaps there were cues to be read, but if there were, they were illegible to Miss Hardbroom. In any case, her opposition to Lynne Lamplighter’s appointment fell upon deaf ears. They had the money in the school coffers to employ her. Her credentials were impeccable. Ethel Hallow’s misuse of magic during Art Week had already solved the problem of the witches’ code rule of secrecy, and Imogen Drill’s perseverance quashed any arguments – however sensible, relevant, and important – about the problems of non-witches teaching in a witch school.

Eventually, the deputy headmistress had exhausted her arsenal; Miss Cackle remained unswayed, and that, more or less, was how Cackle's Academy got an art teacher.

 

 

Miss Lynne Lamplighter had been at Cackle’s for a week before the first magic-related catastrophe.

Miss Hardbroom always responded at once to the sound of girls shrieking in the school. Occasionally it meant that Mildred Hubble and her friends were in mortal peril. More often, it meant they were engaged in acts of non-lethal stupidity. It was Constance’s grudging duty to deliver salvation and punishment as the situation required.  Today, however, it was not the fourth years but the first years who were at the centre of the hullaballoo.

The art room door stood open - magicked open, Miss Hardbroom guessed. She found the source of the shrieks at once. Four first years were huddled behind an over-turned desk just inside the door. Beyond their make-shift barricade was a scene of chaos. An ill-proportioned figure carved from clay lumbered about the room, upsetting easels and moaning piteously.

A single shot of blue light from Miss Hardbroom’s hands returned their hideous progeny to inanimate clay. Constance turned her wrath upon its makers. The first years clambered out from behind the table and looked at her shamefaced. At that moment, Miss Lamplighter arrived, drawn by the screams just a moment later than the deputy headmistress. Constance did not acknowledge her, too focused on the misbehaving students.

 “What is the meaning of this? You have been interfering in something for which you have neither permission nor aptitude, have you not?”

The first years stared at her in guilty silence. Miss Hardbroom rolled her eyes.

“Say ‘Yes, Miss Hardbroom’,” she ordered.

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

 “You shall return the room to order,” she continued, “and If I ever catch you here without permission again, you shall be set to scrub the entire castle from top to bottom, without the use of magic. A task which I do not believe you would particularly enjoy. Say ‘No, Miss Hardbroom.’”

“No, Miss Hardbroom,” they chorused.

Constance nodded, acknowledging their obedience.

“Now I believe you have something to say to Miss Lamplighter.”

Again the girls fell silent.

“I shall not prompt you this time!” Miss Hardbroom barked, her temper rising once more.

Fear loosened their tongues, and the first years turned to Miss Lamplighter, babbling a string of apologies. The art teacher raised a hand to silence them.

“I accept your apology so long as you never do anything like this again,” Lynne told the students in a sterner voice than Miss Hardbroom had yet heard from her.  “And you shall each give me a thousand-word essay on the anatomy of the human arm. Say ‘Yes, Miss Lamplighter.’”

The students looked stricken. In spite of herself, Miss Hardbroom was impressed.

“Yes, Miss Lamplighter. Sorry, Miss Lamplighter.”

“Jump to it then, girls.”

Constance conjured water and sponges, then the two teachers left the miscreants to the first part of their punishment.

 Miss Lamplighter didn't speak until they were some distance from the Art Room.

“Are we out of earshot here?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Miss Hardbroom.

To her disbelief, Miss Lamplighter drew a hand over her eyes and laughed.

“Oh my goodness. Did you see the state of the arms on that thing?”

Constance just nodded, nonplussed. She’d expected her colleague would be upset; angry at having her domain invaded, or shaken to find herself up against students who, even at so young an age, had powers beyond anything she would ever know. It would never have occurred to Constance that she would laugh. Truth be told, laughter usually made Constance uncomfortable. She seldom got the joke, and suspected that those who did were often foolish and generally unreliable. Yet Miss Lamplighter had disciplined the students appropriately. Word of the punishment would spread. Discipline had been maintained. She’d been genuinely angry with the girls – why was she laughing now, and looking at Constance as though they were conspirators? She didn’t seem to mind that Constance had said nothing in response. She had included Constance in this… whatever this was… automatically, unthinkingly.

 “The magic was so impressive, too,” Miss Lamplighter continued wistfully as she headed for the staffroom. “It’s a terrible shame to see it ruined by lack of attention to detail.”

Constance gazed after her in wonderment.

“Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly,” she said.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks passed, and Constance was forced to admit that Miss Lamplighter was fitting in well at Cackle's. The students were no giddier or less focused than usual. Amelia was happy so long as her students were happy, and weren't getting themselves into trouble. Imogen was glad to have another non-witch in the castle, though sadly disappointed at Lynne's lack of enthusiasm for team sports. Davina professed herself thrilled to have another creative genius with whom to commune on questions of the sublime. Constance noticed, with some satisfaction, that so far Miss Lamplighter had avoided such communion as studiously as possible.

Constance herself realized that the psychedelic pants no longer bothered her so much as she'd expected. Ostentatious – ludicrous even - they might be, but she'd discovered a pattern to them. Not to the random swirls of colour themselves, but to the times Miss Lamplighter donned them. She always seemed to wear them on those days when the students were particularly boisterous, and inclined to cause a mess. This indicated foresight and good sense on Miss Lamplighter's part, Constance decided. No sartorial sense of course, but then she was a non-witch, and Constance was disposed to feel magnanimous.

\---///---

Like Constance, Lynne Lamplighter was an early riser. Miss Bat and Miss Cackle were as bad at mornings as the girls were, and never surfaced before the breakfast bell. Miss Drill's early mornings were spent running or cycling through the forest. Though she still spent the nights at her cottage near the village, Lynne had taken to coming to the school first thing in order to breakfast with the staff. Thus, it was not uncommon for Miss Hardbroom and Miss Lamplighter to sit together in the staffroom for half an hour before the rest of the castle stirred.

One such morning found Constance fuming over a particularly dreadful test of Mildred's.

"Perfect instructions for a laughing brew when asked for a vanishing potion. Does the girl even read the questions?" she muttered.

Miss Hardbroom often made such comments aloud while marking. It was a form of catharsis. She'd been embarrassed the first time she'd done it in front of Miss Lamplighter, whose presence had unexpectedly altered her long-standing morning routine. Miss Lamplighter hadn't been embarrassed; she'd laughed and commiserated, once again treating Miss Hardbroom as an insider in a shared joke. Now Constance found a thrill of clandestine excitement in sharing these thoughts aloud. Sometimes she paused for a moment before saying them, trying to anticipate what Miss Lamplighter's response would be. Sometimes it was a laugh, sometimes a sigh, sometimes the art teacher offered a comment. Constance seldom guessed correctly which to expect.

"At least she's trying," offered Lynne.

"Yes," snapped Constance. "Very trying."

Lynne laughed. Constance felt witty.

Ten minutes later, it was Lynne's turn to sigh over the paper on her lap, and scratch a pencil through her work in irritation.

"What are you doing?" asked Constance, suddenly suspicious.

"I was trying to draw you," admitted Lynne. "But I've given up."

"Did I move too much? Do you need me to be more still?"

This got a full, throaty laugh from Lynne.

"Constance, you make me wish I were a sculptor. Perhaps I could do you justice with white marble."

"Granite," said Constance.

"What?"

"I believe the general consensus is that I am made of granite."

She'd thought Lynne would laugh at that too, but she didn't.

"The general consensus is often wrong."

Constance searched for something to say. The minutes dragged on.

"Why do you draw, Miss Lamplighter?"

Shortly after Miss Drill had joined the staff, Constance had asked her a similar question. Why was she so keen on sports? What was the point of it? Back then, she'd assumed she'd known the answer - to whit, that PE was effectively useless, especially for girls who would learn to lift boulders and clear streams with a single thought, and that Miss Drill was deluded. She'd learned, with time, that there were benefits to sports which she hadn't foreseen, but never anything that could apply to her own life.

With Lynne Lamplighter and her art, it was different. There was something important in not only being able to label all the parts of Maidenhead, but also in having a way of describing its movement. The way Lynne's eyes sparkled when she laughed was important too, and she found she desperately wanted to learn the rules that governed that laugher and summoned. Constance was aware that she saw the world differently than most of the people around her; only a handful of times before had she felt it as a lack in herself, and never so sharply. She waited with some impatience for Miss Lamplighter's answer.

"It helps me see things," Lynne said. (The answer was rote, but Constance didn't know that.) "I don't feel I've really seen a thing until I draw it. Do you mind my drawing you?"

Constance hesitated.

"You really don't see granite?"

"I don't know what I see. You're magical, but I'm not sure I know what that means any more."

Constance turned the answer over in her mind. She felt a tentative flicker of excitement. Lynne lacked something too, and it was something Constance could provide. Constance knew magic. They could learn wholeness together. She understood now why Lynne had seen them as comrades. She'd known instinctively what Constance was only seeing now. They were a complementary pair. Lynne thought she was magical.

"It will be Halloween soon," Miss Hardbroom said. "That's the night to really see magic at it's finest, Miss Lamplighter. You shall come to the celebrations on Halloween night."

"Thanks. I'd like that," Lynne said. "Oh, there's the breakfast bell. Excellent. I'm famished."


	4. Chapter 4

The Halloween fires burned.

The mountaintop around Cackle's Academy glinted in a myriad different hues. Shooting stars and conjured birds cut through the night and there was a constant thrum in the air of drum beats and of chanting. Constance Hardbroom was in her element. Her hair was loose from its customary bun, and she wore her best robes. The students had behaved admirably, and were now sitting in sleepy groups around the clearing, chatting amongst themselves, and watching the rippling, twisting branches of the trees which Constance herself had enchanted. The rest of the staff could handle them for the moment.

She found Lynne sitting on a log by a fire with indigo flames.

"Are you enjoying the evening, Miss Lamplighter?" she asked.

"I'm half-dazzled," Lynne admitted. "I want to paint it, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. There's so much to see. I don't think I can see the bewitched forest for the spell-bound trees."

Constance had an idea.

"Come with me."

She walked away from the fire, into the shadows. She did not look back. Lynne would follow her. She knew it and it made her feel powerful. Halloween was when she was most truly herself. She yearned to explain this to Lynne – Lynne who saw things others didn't, and reacted in unexpected ways. Lynne whose lips curled so perfectly when she smiled. As she walked Constance crooned a low spell beneath her breath, and by the time they reached the edge of the ring of fire (Lynne had indeed followed her) her broom was hovering there, waiting for them. She sat upon it, leaving room for Lynne, who held back.

"Do you trust me?"

Lynne still looked a little unsure, but tentatively she sat upon the broom, and held on to the stick with one hand on either side when Constance told her to.

The broom took them up over the clearing. Constance flew slowly, keeping their flight perfectly steady. They touched down in a place where an ancient oak tree had fallen and it's roots had pulled up so much earth that it formed a hill.

"Can you see better from here?" she asked.

Beneath them the scene of the Halloween celebrations was laid out like a map. Patches of strange light and movement glistened erratically against the shifting darkness of the moving trees. Constance could feel every part of it. She could easily pick out the boundary line of spell-ringed trees which would keep non-witches and non-wizards away from the woods tonight. Obvious too were her own enchantments which she saw, with considerable satisfaction, were still equally balanced in all parts of the clearing and would probably outlast even the fires. With slightly more concentration, she could discern the pattern of energy Miss Cackle and the chief wizard had used when lighting those fires. The fires all looked alike, but to Miss Hardbroom the witch and wizard magic which had produced them were as different as the tastes of salt and sugar. Most subtle of all was the signature of various different spells being cast by individual witches and wizards below. Usually, she tried to ignore these when she could - the imprecision of so many of them tended to give her a headache. Tonight she took the time to analyse them. Now she could comprehend the entire structure of the scene before her, she knew where the magic was strongest and where the points of balance were.

Suddenly, sickeningly, Constance realised the impossibility of the task she had set herself. She had absolutely no way of communicating any of this to the woman beside her. She turned helplessly to look at Miss Lamplighter. For a moment, she couldn't see her. So focussed had Constance been on sensing the magic around her that Lynne looked like a shadow. She was completely blank, devoid of any enchantment. Constance instinctively recoiled.

Then a sudden burst of conjured stars shot up from the clearing. Everything was bathed in green light. Constance could see Lynne's face again, and she saw that her companion was gazing out over the vista and smiling in delight.

"It's spectacular," Lynne breathed. "It's like the lights of an underwater ghost city."

_No_, thought Miss Hardbroom. _It really isn't_. They sat side by side in silence. Constance set her disappointment aside. If they could both appreciate the scene together, did it matter if they weren't really seeing the same thing? It was Halloween, and she was sitting with a friend who had chosen to stay here with her. Less than she had hoped, perhaps, but more than she'd ever expected.

And that might have been enough, if Lynne hadn't touched her.


	5. Chapter 5

Constance wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there when Miss Lamplighter spoke again.

“It’s beautiful,” she reiterated. “I don’t understand it, but it’s beautiful.” She turned to face Constance. “Like you,” she added, and then laughed at her companion’s surprise.

“I’m an artist,” she said. “I’m professionally entitled to an opinion on the subject. You look more like marble than ever in this light.”

She reached out, and drew the tip of her finger along the skin of Constance’s throat, tracing a line from her jaw to the collar of her dress.

 

\---///---

 

Alone in her rooms, Constance tried to collect herself.  She could still feel Lynne’s touch on her neck. She felt raw and exposed, and much too hot. Leaning against the casement of her paneless window she felt the cold stone on her forehead. That helped a little. But the night breeze carried with it the smoke from the dying fires, and soon she found the scent overpowering and had to move away from the window.

She began pacing the room instead. Turning around, she caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror. Her mirror was hung low on the wall, designed to be used by somebody sitting at the dressing table. Standing, Constance could only see herself from the shoulders down, a silhouette all in black except for her pale hands. She pressed her own hands against her stomach, beneath her breasts and imagined Lynne’s hands there instead. She whimpered, and turned away.

This was unbearable.  It felt as though she had been broken open, fractured, shattered to pieces. Constance fell down upon the bed, her hands about her throat, and wished for sleep that didn’t come.

 

\---///---

“Have a good time?” Imogen asked as she passed Lynne on her way out of the castle.

“I did. Miss Hardbroom showed me the view from the hilltop. And don’t tell anyone, but I think I may have seen the tiniest of cracks in her shell tonight.”

Miss Drill looked skeptical.

They bade each other goodnight and went their separate ways.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning found Constance calmer. She’d handled things badly last night, she realized. She ought not to have left when she did. Her consolation was that Lynne would understand.

She made her way down to the staffroom and waited. By ten o’clock, Miss Lamplighter had still not appeared. Miss Hardbroom began to feel uneasy. Everyone else in the castle was still fast asleep. It was tradition after Halloween to sleep until noon. Since the memorable Halloween when Agatha Cackle had attempted to take over the castle, it was one tradition Constance did not keep, though she played her part by ensuring no student was out of bed. Perhaps Miss Lamplighter was staying away out of respect to a Cackle’s tradition. The thought made Constance feel better, and she forced her attention to some corrections she ought to have finished days ago.

At half past eleven Miss Drill stuck her head around the door to say good morning before heading out for a run. At noon, the breakfast bell sounded and the castle began to stir. Now Constance was anxious. She said nothing until the staff were all seated for breakfast. When nobody else raised the subject, she voiced her concern.

“Headmistress, it is not like Miss Lamplighter to be this late. I’m afraid something has happened to her.”

“Do calm down, Constance. Miss Lamplighter only had one class scheduled for this afternoon, so I gave her the day off.”

“The day off?” Constance asked, her voice high-pitched in disbelief. “You mean, she shan’t be coming to the castle today?”

Miss Cackle looked annoyed.

“Why should she? If she’s got no classes, there’s no reason for her to come up here at all, is there?”

Constance disagreed, but said nothing.

Breakfast finished, she went to teach her first afternoon class. Perhaps Lynne knew she would be busy with classes today. She would be here for dinner, no matter what Miss Cackle said.

Dinner came and went and brought no Miss Lamplighter with it. Constance left the table early, and hurried towards the potions lab. Students scattered before her, afraid of their teacher’s wrath. In her lab, Constance grabbed a cauldron, poured in the contents of three cryptically-marked bottles from her top shelf, and muttered a scrying spell. A dark smoke formed over the cauldron, and then began to dissipate. Miss Hardbroom watched impatiently. Part of her was waiting with expectant dread to see Miss Lamplighter unconscious or hurt somewhere in the forest. When the smoke cleared, however, Constance was looking into a cheerily-decorated room. An easel was set up in one corner, facing away from her. Through a window to the left Constance could see a small garden, and an ornate blue gate. Behind the easel, a figure was busy at work. It was Lynne, safe and sound at home and clearly not thinking about the school or anyone in it at all.

Constance felt her anger rising. It was a familiar anger, a blend of personal disappointment and professional annoyance. She embraced it and wrapped it around her like an old friend.


	7. Chapter 7

“Good morning, Constance.”

The following day again found Miss Hardbroom and Miss Lamplighter the sole early birds in the staffroom, as though nothing had changed.

“Miss Lamplighter,” replied Miss Hardbroom coldly.

“It’s so fine today, I think I may have the third years sketch outdoors.”

Constance said nothing.

“I hope the students behaved themselves yesterday after the fun of Halloween,” Lynne hazarded.

Even Constance could tell that there was a note of uncertainty in her voice. Still she made no answer.

“Are you all right, Miss Hardbroom? Mildred’s not getting to you again, is she?”

The old familiarity was too much for Constance to bear.

“I thought, Miss Lamplighter, that you’d quite lost interest in our students,” she said.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Miss Lamplighter asked.

“You didn’t seem unduly concerned about leaving them in the lurch yesterday,” said Constance. Each word felt like a weapon, and she exulted in it.

“Miss Cackle gave me the day off!” Lynne protested. She’d surrendered her usual seat by the window and was standing on the carpet in front of the table, like a student being scolded.

“Miss Cackle is a great educator,” said Miss Hardbroom primly, “but sometimes she is too kind-hearted for her own good. She is too easily imposed upon.”

“Imposed upon?” Constance, don’t be cruel!”

Constance made no reply. She finished correcting her paper. Without looking up, she reached for the next one from the stack. The staffroom door creaked open and slammed shut.

\---///---

To all of the qualified observers in the castle, Miss Hardbroom seemed exactly like herself. She was short with the students, sardonic with the rest of the staff, devoted to her work, dedicated to high standards, and quick to anger when those standards were not met. It was only to Miss Lamplighter that any change in her behavior could possibly be apparent, and Miss Hardbroom avoided being alone with Miss Lamplighter at all costs.

It was easier than she’d expected. The rest of the staff unwittingly colluded with her. They assumed that if Constance did not want to be in Lynne’s company, the feeling must be more than mutual and stuck to the art teacher like body guards at break times. Between that and a new policy of working in her own room before breakfast, Constance managed to forestall a confrontation for a full fortnight.

Her luck ran out during a free period one Friday. The first years had chanting, the second years were with Miss Cackle, and the three upper forms had been conscripted into a cross-country run with Miss Drill. Thus, there was no possible sanctuary when Miss Lamplighter strode into the potions lab and stood in front of her, arms akimbo.

Her opening salvo wrong-footed Constance the way Lynne’s remarks so often did.

“I’ve been shortlisted for an important prize,” she said.

“How nice,” said Constance. “I’m afraid I’m rather busy.”

“I want you to see the picture.”

“Miss Lamplighter, I really don’t have time to look at your-”

Lynne cut her off before she could think of a suitably derisory way to refer to the artist’s work.

“Stop behaving like a child, Constance. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I can’t make amends if you won’t tell me what’s wrong. Come and see my painting.”

She turned and left the room. Reluctantly, Constance rose and followed her down the corridor.

The painting was the view from the top of the hill at Halloween, but not the view as Constance herself had seen it. The light and shapes were strange. It must be a good painting, she thought, to be winning prizes. For her own part, it made her uneasy. She liked the fine detail on the blades of grass and thistles in the foreground, but didn’t think that was the sort of response Miss Lamplighter was looking for, so she said nothing.

“I barely slept after I went home on Halloween night,” explained Lynne. “I got up early, and worked on it all day. My agent thinks it’s the best work I’ve ever done.”

“This is the painting you were working on? This is why you didn’t come back to the castle?” Constance asked.

“Yes. You must know I didn’t bunk off out of disrespect to the school,” Lynne said. “I thought you knew how much I enjoyed teaching. I thought we were friends”

“Friends?” cried Constance, turning abruptly from the painting to face the artist.

“Yes,” said Lynne, a little desperately. “Or that we were coming to be friends, at any rate. I know you’re a very private person, Constance, but if you’d just unbend a bit. Just take one little step…”

Constance felt like screaming, or crying, or fleeing from the room in shame and embarrassment. She did none of these things. Instead, she tried to explain.

“One step? Lynne, I’ve already taken a thousand.”

Miss Lamplighter just looked confused.

Constance’s heart sank. In the last six weeks – was it really only six weeks? – she had travelled as far as she could endure.  And finally, at the end of it all she found she’d only reached the starting line.

“I did a larger version, in oils. That’s the one that’s gone to the judges. Constance, I’d like you to have this painting.”

Gazing at the picture again she noticed for the first time the band of darkness between the viewer and the distant lights. Beneath it, on the viewer’s side of the chasm, there was a hint of a human figure just at the edge of sight, standing stock still. To anyone else viewing the picture she supposed it might offer a hint of companionship, but Constance realized the figure was herself, standing where she had stood next to Lynne, and now entirely alone in the painting.

“I don’t want it,” she said. It was the most honest thing she’d said to Miss Lamplighter in days.


	8. Chapter 8

It was midterm.

Miss Hardbroom was marking exams at her desk while Miss Cackle sorted through the paperwork which she hadn’t had time to look at all day. When everything else was sorted to her satisfaction, she turned to run the last pressing issue by her deputy.

“I have a letter from Miss Lamplighter. She’s decided not to return to teaching once she flies back from her awards ceremony,” she told her.

Constance nodded.

“However, she adds that she also has some suggestions if we’re looking for a replacement.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Headmistress,” said Miss Hardbroom.

“Yes. I suppose we got along well enough before she came,” Miss Cackle agreed. “Still, I shall miss her. I know the two of you didn’t get on terribly well, but I liked her.”

“She was… very good at her job, headmistress.”

“Yes, quite”

Miss Hardbroom got the feeling that Miss Cackle was staring at her, but when she looked up she found the headmistress was facing towards the window, her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

Constance went back to her work. Miss Cackle sat in silent contemplation a few minutes longer, then rose with a sigh and began the familiar routine of tidying away her papers and hunting for her glasses before heading to bed.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she said automatically as she passed Constance on her way out the door.

“Goodnight, Headmistress,” Miss Hardbroom replied.

Ten chimed. Then eleven. Constance paid no heed to the clock. She would have stayed up all night if that was how long it had taken, because it was midterm, and at midterm Constance Hardbroom marked exams.


End file.
